aka: that's how I show affection
by Cap'n Clueless
Summary: Matt Murdock is a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, and is also terrible at feelings. But he's Jessica's stubborn son-of-a-bitch, and she's not much better. Or: in which there is profanity, threatening, and traumatised idiots are reunited. Can be read as platonic or romantic.


First off, have not seen the Defenders, am only partially through Jessica Jones, and am refusing to watch Season 2 of Daredevil because I will cry, lots. That said, from what I've seen of these two, I think they would be pretty good entertainment together. Who knows, they might even work.

Second of all, due to not having seen Defenders, things are deliberately left sketchy.

Third, holy crap, these two are terrible at feelings.

Fourth, Matt can probably smell people's make-up, and it amuses me that when someone's wearing mascara, he smells petroleum. Hence that detail, sorry if it seems weird.

Fifth, wrote this in about 10 minutes. Sorry if it seems weird in general.

Sixth, an obligatory warning for profanity. But seriously, it's Matt Murdock and Jessica Jones, of _course_ there was.

(Except I'm totally not, because I am blaming this _all_ on Charlie Cox and Krysten Ritter.)

This story can also be found on tumblr at shukusen, and at archiveofourown.

And with that, on with the show!

* * *

"Murdock, I swear to God, if you so much as think about moving again, I will string you up by your toes over the Hudson. I don't care if you're conscious or not."

The threat was the thing which jolted Matt from sleep.

He blinked. Cotton sheets, like sandpaper against his skin. That he'd continued sleeping on that surface at all was impressive, and certainly spoke to his exhaustion.

A familiar, steady heartbeat, directly to his right, as well as the smell of whiskey, lipstick, jasmine shampoo and petrol– Jessica? why's she here? which led to the question Where is here?–, and the sound of fingers tapping away at a keyboard, slowing now. Paper and manila folders, over the blankets around his legs.

"Jess?" he croaked. Shit, his throat hurt.

"Well done, you avoided long-term amnesia," she said. The smell of whiskey intensified; her hand tightened on the bottle as she dialled someone. "Temple! Sleeping Beauty awakened. No, I don't think there's anything wrong. He seems like he's in one piece–"

"'m fine," Matt croaked.

"Shut up, Murdock," Jessica continued, sounding almost...cheerful. For her, anyway.

Well, that was eerie. Flattering, though.

"Anyway, is there anything I should know about? Just so we don't have to ship him back to the nunnery?"

Matt blinked. He really hoped that wasn't a euphemism, because his memories were still cloudy.

"Uh-huh. Okay. I can do that. Thanks, Claire. See you in the morning," Jess said, before she hung up.

"Nunnery?" he asked, voice cracking.

"Yup," Jess said, curling his fingers around something plastic. "Drink up."

Plastic, not glass, and it didn't smell like alcohol. Fluoride, maybe.

...oh. Yeah, dehydration would explain a lot.

He unscrewed the cap and sipped at it. "How long?" he managed.

"You're going to have to be more specific, Matt," Jessica said.

Hm. That was a good point.

"How long ago did..." his voice trailed off, into the fog of memory. Well, shit. "How long have I been here?"

"A few hours," Jessica said. "Do you remember the building collapse?"

Frowning, he shook his head. "A building collapsed on me?"

Jessica's pulse quickened to a quick flutter. "Okay, clearly we're going to have to have a talk with the nuns, and some doctors."

"I'm fine."

"You can't remember how you almost died, Matt. There is no universe in which that qualifies as 'fine!'" Jess snapped. "And if you're 'fine', then congratulations, you're clearly dealing with shit a whole lot better than me!"

His eyebrows shot up.

Jessica Jones was...willingly admitting to weakness.

Holy shit.

"Jess?" he asked, softly.

"Don't," she said, her voice shaking. "Don't say my name like that. Since you can't seem to remember the recent past, let me illuminate it for you, you bastard. A building collapsed on you. You told us to protect 'your city', you played the martyr, and Luke was convinced you were dead. So was Danny. So was I, and it was only because no-one found the body that Claire – who fucking cried, by the way – convinced us that you probably weren't, because you were, and I quote, 'the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch to ever walk this planet, and yes, Luke, I am including you in the contenders.' We searched for a month to find you. And we found you, in a monastery in fucking New Jersey. New Jersey, Murdock. Do you know how much I have never wanted to go to New Jersey?"

Matt swallowed. "You would prefer hell?" he tried.

She snorted, her heartbeat slowing slightly, shoulders relaxing a little. "Nice try. But no, New Jersey is hell."

"But there are monasteries there, you just said so," Matt said.

"You asshole! Don't make me laugh when I am yelling at you!"

"You're not yelling, your neighbours are," Matt said, cocking his head to the side. "...are they really yelling about blueberry batter, or is my hearing acting up?"

"They bake," Jessica said. "And you deflect when people demonstrate that they fucking care about you, you bastard."

His throat closed up. "I–"

Her pulse accelerated, and she was trembling. "So don't you dare say that you're fine. Say almost anything else. But you don't get to be fine after you almost died on us."

On me, hung in the air, and Matt closed his eyes.

"Kyrie eleison," he whispered.

"What?"

Oh. He'd forgotten how good Jessica's hearing was. Well done, Murdock. Open mouth, insert foot.

"It means, God have mercy," he explained, taking a deep breath. "Jessica. I'm sorry. I never wanted...I never, ever intended..." he trailed off.

"To what, Matt?" her voice was hard, and filled with her usual tenacity. He breathed, and took the plunge.

"To leave you," he said. "I'm sorry, Jess."

A long, shaky exhale, and the smell of salt, the micro-vibrations of tears sliding down her cheeks, and now he was trembling, with the urge to hold her, wipe the tears away, because someone else he cared about was crying and it was his fault–

"Yeah, well," she said, voice trembling. "Don't ever scare us like that again, you asshole."

"Stubborn asshole," Matt agreed, his heart flipping as a slender, strong arm wrapped around him and pulled his head to rest against her shoulder. He breathed in, breathed in jasmine shampoo, and whiskey, and listened to the soft shush of her hair as she tipped her head forward.

And then, because he was feeling terrified, delighted, and totally lost in the smell of jasmine and petrol, he added: "Your stubborn asshole."

She huffed. "Don't make me fucking say it," she said, before she started typing. "I'll let the others know you're waking up. I hope you're prepared for Rand. He'll probably try and _hug_ you, or something."

Matt smiled into the crook of her neck, and closed his eyes, listening to Jessica type. "I'll just use you as a shield."

Jessica scoffed, and the last of the tension broke. "Fucking try it, Beelzebub."


End file.
